


Porcelain

by starstruck1986



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:46:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starstruck1986/pseuds/starstruck1986
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warnings: Implied depression and trauma.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Porcelain

“Oh Merlin's saggy-”  
“Can we leave him out of this?” Draco asked.  
  
George froze on the threshold of the ratty old flat which sat atop his shop. He was covered from head to toe in pink glitter, the result of an invention gone wrong which would have been hilarious had it been anybody else on the receiving end of the throat-clogging glitter.  
  
“How did you get in?” He asked finally, feeling sweat in his palms as he darted inside and closed the door behind him.  
“Your wards are shocking.”  
“I don't care if anybody gets in to kill me,” George admitted. Draco didn't wince at his honesty. “Alright, next question. Why're you here?”  
  
That, however, Draco did not seem to have an answer for. His shoulders shifted awkwardly beneath his expensive shirt, and grey eyes looked at a point just above George's head.  
  
“And why is there dinner on my table and wine in my glasses...” George drifted to the small picnic table which he had always used as a dining table. “And why are my glasses clean?”  
  
He lifted one up and looked at the shiny surface sparkling in the candle light.  
  
“And when did I get scented candles?”  
“Shut up, Weasley.”  
“Don't call me Weasley.”  
“Don't tell me what to call you.”  
  
George didn't put up much of a fight when Draco came at him, jaw clenched, eyes wide, and seconds later they were kissing. His back hit the wall and something in the base of his neck crunched, but he ignored it in favour of nipping at Draco's lower lip.  
  
“How did you know I was even in tonight?” he gasped, as slim fingers wormed their way into the front of his glittery work robes.  
“Intuition,” Draco muttered. “That, and you never leave, so really, why would you be out?”  
“I leave,” George retorted defensively. “I have... places to be.”  
“What, your brother's house, doing nothing? Or your other brother's house... doing nothing.”  
“I do things.”  
  
There was a light snort of derision and George pulled back, smacking the base of his skull into the wall.  
  
“I think you should go. Because this isn't... we aren't...”  
“We aren't what?”  
“Together. You don't get to break into my flat and cook me dinner and light the fucking candles like you belong here!”  
  
Inexplicably, George felt anger rising in is blood and he pushed Draco away by the shoulders.  
  
“I think you should go,” he finished spitefully, flicking his eyes towards to the door.  
  
Draco simply stared.  
  
“Ferret. Get out.”  
  
Grey eyes flashed with contempt.  
  
“Not going anywhere.” Draco's tone was icy.  
“You should.”   
“Probably.”  
  
They stood in silence for a good while, until George felt his body start to sag and his resistance melt along with it.  
  
“The food's getting cold,” he muttered finally, sliding down to sit in one of the uncomfortable folding chairs which Fred had chosen, four years before.  
  
Draco sat in the seat opposite him without a word. George gulped at the glass of wine which had leapt into his hand without his notice and savoured the richness of the taste.  
  
“Good wine?” Draco asked, seemingly amused.  
“Mmhmm,” George mumbled through another mouthful.  
“Your family don't let you drink. I do.”  
  
George thought about that and chose to say nothing.  
  
“And they treat you like a lunatic. I don't.”  
“They don't-”  
“They treat you like porcelain,” Draco continued, his voice softening. “Porcelain which might rightly break, because it has cracks in the surface and has been through... trauma.”  
“Oh Godric. Look, I hate poetry.”  
“I'm good for you,” Draco blurted, finally losing his finesse. “This. You like it. Nobody does this for you.”  
“No.”  
“Well, I'm doing it for you.”  
“But what do you want from me?” George set his glass back down. “Do you want a relationship? Because I'll be a pretty bollocks lover. I don't even know which way is up most days, and this is four years down the line. Four years. Do you ever think I'm going to be normal, Draco?”  
“The thing you have to remember,” Draco leant forward, looking George directly in the eye. “Is that I'm not normal, either. I have cracks. I've broken like you. But unlike you, I've never been able to let anybody in to help me heal, and more to the point, nobody wanted to come in. But I think you do.”  
  
George swallowed, his throat suddenly hot and dry despite all the wine he had drunk.  
  
“Just... see what we can do for one another.”  
“That sounds like some sleazy business arrangement where one of us is going to get pushed off a high bridge.”  
“Really, I don't think either of us would need to be pushed. We'd jump,” Draco said matter-of-factly.  
  
George said nothing, but picked up his drink again.  
  
“Food's getting colder,” he sighed finally, draining the glass, and reached for his fork. “Stay the night?”  
  
The pinkness which rushed to Draco's alabaster cheeks was all the confirmation that he needed.


End file.
